Antonio Machado 2004 9

Classic Poetry Series

Antonio Machado- poems -

Publication Date:2004

Publisher:PoemHunter.Com - The World's Poetry Archive

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2

Antonio Machado (1875-1939)Antonio Machado was born in Seville and moved to Madrid at the age ofeight. He studied in Paris where he worked as a translator, and met Frenchpoets. He became a schoolteacher. He returned to Spain and taught at Soriain Castile, from 1907, where he met his wife Leonor. Tragically she died veryyoung, and in 1912 he left Soria for Baeza in Andalusia. Loyal to the Republiche left Spain for France when Catalonia fell, and died there in February 1939.He is acknowledged as Spains finest poet of the early twentieth century.


Fields of SoriaHills of silver plate,grey heights, dark red rocksthrough which the Duero bendsits crossbow arcround Soria, shadowed oaks,stone dry-lands, naked mountains,white roads and river poplars,twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,today I feel, for you,in my hearts depths, sadness,sadness of love! Fields of Soria,where it seems the stones have dreams,you go with me! Hills of silver plate,grey heights, dark red rocks.Antonio Machado


GuadarramaGuadarrama, is it you, old friend,mountains white and graythat I used to see painted against the bluethose afternoons of the old days in Madrid?Up your deep ravinesand past your bristling peaksa thousand Guadarramas and a thousand sunscome riding with me, riding to your heart.Translated by Alan S. TruebloodAnonymous submission.Antonio Machado


Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?Has my heart gone to sleep?Have the beehives of my dreamsstopped working, the waterwheelof the mind run dry,scoops turning empty,only shadow inside?No, my heart is not asleep.It is awake, wide awake.Not asleep, not dreamingits eyes are opened widewatching distant signals, listeningon the rim of vast silence.Translated by Alan S. TruebloodAnonymous submission.Antonio Machado


Last Night As I Was SleepingLast night as I was sleeping,I dreamtmarvelous error!that a spring was breakingout in my heart.I said: Along which secret aqueduct,Oh water, are you coming to me,water of a new lifethat I have never drunk?Last night as I was sleeping,I dreamtmarvelous error!that I had a beehivehere inside my heart.And the golden beeswere making white combsand sweet honeyfrom my old failures.Last night as I was sleeping,I dreamtmarvelous error!that a fiery sun was givinglight inside my heart.It was fiery because I feltwarmth as from a hearth,and sun because it gave lightand brought tears to my eyes.Last night as I slept,I dreamtmarvelous error!that it was God I hadhere inside my heart.Translated by Robert BlyAnonymous submission.Antonio Machado


PassagewaysWho set, between those rocks like cinder,to show the honey of dream,that golden broom,those blue rosemaries?Who painted the purple mountainsand the saffron, sunset sky?The hermitage, the beehives,the cleft of the riverthe endless rolling water deep in rocks,the pale-green of new fields,all of it, even the white and pinkunder the almond trees!Antonio Machado


Songs of the High CountrySoria, in blue mountains,on the fields of violet,how often Ive dreamed of youon the plain of flowers,where the Guadalquivi runspast golden orange-treesto the sea.Antonio Machado


The Wind, One Brilliant DayThe wind, one brilliant day, calledto my soul with an odor of jasmine."In return for the odor of my jasmine,I'd like all the odor of your roses.""I have no roses; all the flowersin my garden are dead.""Well then, I'll take the withered petalsand the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"Translated by Robert BlyAnonymous submission.Antonio Machado


To Joe Mara PalacioPalacio, good friend,is spring thereshowing itself on branches of black poplarsby the roads and river? On the steepsof the high Duero, spring is late,but so soft and lovely when it comes!Are there a few new leaveson the old elms?The acacias must still be bare,and the mountain peaks snow-filled.Oh the massed pinks and whitesof Moncayo, massed up there,beauty, in the sky of Aragon!Are there brambles flowering,among the grey stones,and white daisies,in the thin grass?On the belltowersthe storks will be landing now.The wheat must be greenand the brown mules working sown furrows,the people seeding late crops,in April rain. Therell be bees,drunk on rosemary and thyme.Are the plum trees in flower? Violets still?There must be hunters about, stealthy,their decoys under long capes.Palacio, good friend,are there nightingales by the river?When the first lilies,and the first roses, open,on a blue evening, climb to Espino,high Espino, where she is in the earth.Antonio Machado

Table of ContentsCOVERBIOGRAPHYFields of SoriaGuadarramaHas My Heart Gone To Sleep?Last Night As I Was SleepingPassagewaysSongs of the High CountryThe Wind, One Brilliant DayTo Joe Mara Palacio

Antonio Machado 2004 9

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